


Halo of Madness

by iridescentzen



Category: Hellraiser (Movies), Hellraiser Series
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Dark, Demon Sex, F/M, Hellseeker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-23 07:19:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/619521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iridescentzen/pseuds/iridescentzen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She always thought he would taste like blood, but he tastes like a fine wine, a sweet red and she is suddenly drunk on him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Halo of Madness

Halo of Madness  
By iridescentZEN  
Pairing: Kirsty Cotton/Pinhead

\-----

This part of the deal is unexpected; she thought he would only want souls.

"There are other ways to experience flesh besides hooks and blades," he said his studded face as inscrutable as ever.

 _The box will never let you go_ , he told her. Is it the box that won’t let go or is it him?

Now, Kirsty feels like she can't catch her breath like she is submerged beneath icy water on a freezing cold day. Her back is arched as far away from him as possible but her pelvis meets his again and again, her peachy flesh tone meeting his stark white as their hips grind against one another.

The smell of him is a heavy vanilla mixed with the underlying odor of pennies. His skin is cold to the touch but has grown warmer the more time he spends with her. She is immensely thankful that his form is completely human as she runs her hands over his shoulders. Initially, she had not wanted to touch him at all, but it was impossible; his flesh called to her like the puzzle box itself. She finds her hands caressing him wherever she can, her fingers moving along his chest and over the patches of his exposed skin. Every time she runs her fingers along those squares, his head tilts back with pleasure.

The nails in his head and face burrow deeply into his alabaster flesh until not even the tops are out. Now his face is merely gridded, but his lips are free to taste hers without injuring her. She bows her head and brings their lips together boldly, hers so warm and his so cold. She always thought he would taste like blood, but he tastes like a fine wine, a sweet red and she is suddenly drunk on him.

 _This is part of the deal and that is all_ , she reassures herself. It is necessary to ensure her continued survival while assuring that the people who wronged her would pay.

The demon breaks their kiss to scrutinize her.

“Liar,” he tells her with relish, because he knows the truth of her flesh. His wide black eyes are focused on her but reveal nothing.

 _Oh God_ , she thinks under his fathomless ebony gaze, _what have I done? What … have … I … done?!_

A chain with a vicious looking hook on the end of it materializes from out of nowhere and buries itself deep within the flesh of Kirsty’s shoulder like a burrowing worm, its curved sharpness not stopping until her flesh there is stretched inches away from her body like taffy. She screams but it only blends in with the thousand wails of suffering that seem to be on a continuous loop around them.

The eyes of the demon flash with true malice as he holds her gaze, his cold fingers punishing her hips in a bruising grip as her rhythm falters beneath the onslaught of pain.

"Do not think of _God_ when _I_ am inside you!" his resonated voice bellows, clearly insulted.

The agony of pain seems to slow time until it is still; the hurt is so overwhelming that she can’t seem to catch her breath and this seems to amuse him greatly as he laughs at her suffering. He is appeased like a hungry lion after feasting on the kill.

Kirsty says nothing, biting her tongue until she tastes blood. She did not define the rules of this meeting other than to assure that she would survive it. They are in a different realm and she has to believe that she will return to the world whole.

She _has_ to believe.

The hook and chain release from her shoulder, reacting from a minute glance from him. Her blood drips and splatters across the black fabric of the bedding. The wound is open, bleeding, but she ignores it. The adrenaline pumping through her has dulled the pain to a rhythmic thumping. It is a scraped knee here. It is not fatal even at its depth and her body is like livewire. There is only one thing she can focus on and that is the heat between their bodies, of the deliciously sinful friction of their flesh melding together.

Kirsty finds herself laughing, not stopping even when he seems to quiet in the halo of her madness. When he shed her blood, she thought he would turn into a mad dog gone feral with the scent of it. Instead he is still like a marble statue.

When Kirsty agreed to this savage fucking, she knew she wouldn’t make it through without bleeding.

The former Elliot Spencer’s hands loosen slightly on her lips. The scent of her blood, the sight of it, seems to calm him and they continue their pursuit of pleasure together without words.

Kirsty is disgusted with herself that her desire for him is amplified by the pain, instead of dulled like she hoped.

It occurs to her that she doesn’t know his name, doesn’t even know what to call him. She certainly couldn’t call him Elliot. Elliot is a shadow here, a passenger on the ship but the demon is the Captain of the vessel.

The moans and screams of pain around them turn into whispers. She feels her dark brown hair blowing as though caught in a blast of wind. Hushed, the damned reveal his name to her ears as though they are committing blasphemy by doing so, the name tickling the shell of her flesh as they speak.

“Xipe … Totec,” they say, before reverting back to their agonized chants.

Knowledge is power, but if it could hurt him in any way then the symphony of suffering wouldn’t have revealed it to her. That she knows for sure.

Caught off guard she all but purrs as he changes tempo, immediately sickened for enjoying it. The molten lava Kirsty feels between her legs has her aching for him. The unnatural and the natural collide to create a heavy coat of her shame that lingers in the air.

It smells to him like the sweetest of perfumes.

"Your shame is exquisite," he says, and to her ears it almost sounds romantic.

Kirsty is ashamed. She is ashamed because she believed the lies her snake in the grass husband spoon fed to her. She is ashamed because she trusted him, with her heart, with her body and with her secrets.

Trevor betrayed her in every way possible.

Kirsty is ashamed that she forgave him again and again, no matter how many women she knew he fucked, because she loved him.

Trevor ran the well of forgiveness dry.

“He will suffer,” Xipe Totec offers, clearly reading her thoughts. “He will be caught in an eternity of misery, a lower level sycophant begging for an end that will never come.” He is smug when he asks, “Does that fact sate your wounded pride? Does it coat your vengeful heart like the sweetest of balms?”

_Yes. Yes it does._

Kirsty snarls at him, her flesh crawling with revulsion as he enjoys her but she can’t lie to herself: This encounter is not one-sided. Even though she knows that she is a rabbit caught in a hunter’s trap, enjoying the fact that her death is imminent.

The world thought her crazy for the stories she told, they locked her up for a truth that she knew happened and they couldn’t possibly believe or comprehend.

Since she first opened the box and heard the sickly sweet music that had her under its spell like a child hearing the siren’s call of an ice cream truck, she has felt like part of her is missing. Even though the Cenobites hadn’t gotten her soul in the end they have successfully chipped away at it, taking pieces for their collection to nail to their pillar of suffering, enjoyed by them like the finest art.

Xipe Totec’s words irritate her now. All of her anguish is delightful to him, and he only craves more of it. She narrows her eyes and glares at him.

“Shut up and fuck me,” she states like he is _her toy_ and not the other way around. She needs to feel empowered as though she is the one in control even though she knows the chaos she let loose the moment her fingertips touched the box. Even though she is terrified and in danger.

The nails in his head burst out of his flesh like macabre fireworks, no longer able to be contained by him. The slightest of smiles pulls at his lips, the grids surrounding them pulling tight across his face, the nails hammered into his flesh slightly askew. “As you wish,” he says.

It goes on forever, this forbidden meeting of flesh. Kirsty wants to not enjoy it, to not give in to her hedonistic tendencies. She wants to believe that she is more disciplined than the family members before her, but she can’t quite stop the knowledge that not even her unscrupulous, rapist Uncle Frank had fucked a demon.

In the face of her blinding rage, Kirsty has fallen deeper under the spell of the box that has so utterly destroyed her family.

It feels like it’s been hours since her husband gave her an anniversary gift: the lament configuration wrapped in gift wrap, a total mockery of her trust and love. The same puzzle box that destroyed her world was offered to her like a prized diamond on what should have been a wonderful night.

“Just open the fucking box,” Trevor said, annoyed.

So she did. Her fingers followed the beautiful, gilded lines of suffering, repeating a pattern that was never forgotten to unlock a version of Hell she never hoped to see again.

Trevor will pay for breaking her heart, and with each thrust of the pinheaded demon inside her, her body burns with an inner flame of vengeance. The fact that she will have payback makes everything better: sight, taste, smell, touch and sound are all greater than they were before.

When Kirsty finally reaches her pinnacle of pleasure, her orgasm rolls through her like thunder, primal and fiery hot. Her heart is beating so furiously in her chest she worries momentarily about going into cardiac arrest. She can’t stop the scream of ecstasy that bursts through her lips, reverberating through the chamber at odds with the howls of pain that make up the ambient noise. He doesn’t stop his powerful thrusts until his own bliss is achieved, her body rocking with him, moving with such strength that her teeth rattle.

They lay there, limbs entwined with one another in the most frightening afterglow Kirsty has ever experienced in her life. She is breathing hard, a panic attack close to the surface as the reality of what she’s done sets in. Naturally, he is nonplussed.

She imagines that this must have been a painfully vanilla sexual experience for him.

Mostly, she is just confused.

“I don’t understand your infatuation,” Kirsty says, covering her nakedness with his blanket as though that will make the last few hours cease to exist. “I’m nothing special.”

“You are mistaken,” he says, approaching her fully dressed in his leathers, the wicked tools of his trade swinging from a belt laced around his hips.

Lightly, his hand caresses her cheek, the black lace covering his thumb and pinkie finger is soft against her skin. His eyes reveal nothing. “You are the one that got away.”

Just like that time seems to shift and she is fully clothed, incredibly furious and standing in front of her painfully dumb husband, the puzzle box still clenched between her white-knuckled fingers.

“I don’t get it, nothing happened!” Trevor says, pacing back and forth. “You lied to me, Kirsty. You’re just mental!”

In her fury, she doesn’t think as she throws the box at his head as hard as she can. It disappoints her when Trevor ducks in time to avoid it. The box bounces off the wall to land upright and whole on the floor at Trevor’s feet.

“Jesus Christ!” he exclaims, his cornflower blue eyes wide with shock. “No wonder you’re on so many meds.”

“Get out! Get the fuck out!” she screams at him, irked that he is so calm in the face of her fury.

Trevor instantly changes his tune like the true charmer he is. “Babe, calm down. It was just a joke. It’s just a puzzle box.”

Kirsty ignores his words and scans the room for anything else she can use as a weapon, something she can use to hurt him the way he has hurt her even though nothing but his head on a pike will be sufficient. She eyeballs a glass ashtray, picks it up and holds it like a baseball.

“I’m warning you, Trevor. Get out now!”

“Or what?” he says in that nonchalant tone of his. “You gonna throw that at my head, too?”

Instead of his head, she aims for his torso and throws with enough strength that it will hurt. It hits him in the soft flesh of his stomach, making him double over in pain.

“Fuck! Okay! Okay! I’m leaving!” Trevor says, grabbing his wallet and putting on his shoes as fast as he is capable.

Kirsty opens the door to their apartment, paying no attention to all of the nosy neighbors loitering out in the hall unsure if this domestic dispute warrants a phone call to the police or not.

Trevor shuffles out, still pleading with her. “C’mon Kirsty, it was just a joke. I swear!”

Kirsty is still so enraged that she is shaking. She avoids looking at her neighbors and instead slams the door in Trevor’s face, locking the deadbolt seconds later so he knows he can’t use his key to get in.

A moment later she hears his timid voice say, “Five years, Kirsty. Don’t throw them all away. I’ll call you. I love you!”

Then finally, silence.

The bathroom seems so far away as she runs to the toilet to throw up the entirety of her anniversary dinner. She keeps her head hanging over the bowl until the nausea passes. Her body is still thrumming with anger, a fierce burn between her legs and the inky wetness of demon coating the insides of her thighs reminds her of everything she just did and agreed to do.

Kirsty looks in the mirror and avoids her face, pulling down her brown sweater at the collar to reveal the flesh of her shoulder. The pain is gone and there is no wound. There is only a black scar left where the hook ripped her flesh. It looks like controlled chaos, an artistically rendered paint splatter across the canvas of her flesh.

She’s been marked.

Kirsty sobs then, big heaving sobs that shake her whole frame. Fat tears roll down her cheeks but she is only mourning herself. When she finally stops, she looks at her image dead-on in the mirror, barely recognizing the Hell she sees in her brown eyes.

As she stares at herself, her eyes turn black as coal, just like the demon’s eyes. Holding her own gaze in the mirror, she is horrified when her image pales and thick lines appear to form a grid across her face, large nails ghosting over them at perfectly placed one inch intervals.

Kirsty watches as her own face morphs completely into his in the mirror.

“Bring them to me and all will be revealed to you!” he demands impatiently.

Letting out a gasp, she closes her eyes and shakes her head, hoping to rid herself of him. When she opens them, she is left with her own image again, but the dread is still there. It changes nothing. She still has a bargain to uphold. When she willingly opened the box in a fit of anger, she knew exactly what she was doing.

She would not be a victim.

Squaring her shoulders, she fixes a determined stare at herself in the mirror.

Vengeful desire must be unleashed; her skin itches with the need to kill.

They will all pay.

They will pay her and then they will pay her _demon lover_ and it will be messy, awful and completely deserved.


End file.
